


Dehydration

by sarahatqt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahatqt/pseuds/sarahatqt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was twenty minutes after they'd entered the motel room that it hit them. Heat—sweltering, unbearable, and cause for instant removal of clothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dehydration

It was twenty minutes after they'd entered the motel room that it hit them. Heat—sweltering, unbearable, and cause for instant removal of clothing. 

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean panted, peeling layer after sweat-drenched layer from his burning skin. “How'd it get so hot all of a sudden?”

Sam, long hair plastered to his forehead and the sides of his face, groaned as a brief gust of cool air hit his torso, immediately unbuttoning his jeans and letting them slip down his hips and pool at his feet. “I don't . . . I don't know. Something's wrong.” He squinted at the air-conditioner, stepping out of his jeans, stumbling towards it, and turning it to full-blast on the coolest setting. “It wasn't this hot outside. I think . . . I think we should call Bobby.”

Dean nodded absently, licking his lips as his eyes traveled over the plains of his brother's sweat-slicked skin. “Yeah,” he said huskily, feeling his jeans become increasingly more confining. “Yeah, that's a good idea . . . But maybe . . . .” He sucked in a breath as Sam turned toward him, an obvious bulge in the younger man's boxer-briefs. “Maybe after a shower.” He glanced up into Sam's eyes and shivered at the look he found there.

Sam swallowed and nodded, his trembling hands itching to rub Dean's well-muscled abdomen, to slide over his shoulders and down his back, to follow the stuttered curve of his spine. “Shower,” he mumbled, taking a step towards the other. “Right.” Dean's fingers came up, intent on freeing himself of the jeans that were now painfully tight, but Sam held out a hand, shaking his head as he continued towards his brother. “No,” he said breathlessly, fingers curling around Dean's. “No, let . . . let me.”

Dean watched with bated breath as Sam looked down, shaking fingers breaching the waistline of his jeans and bunching the stiff fabric before popping the button. Sam expelled a shuddering breath, as if the button had released a pressure gauge in his chest, making Dean's knees weak. Clutching his brother's biceps bruisingly, he closed his eyes and breathed deep. Sam's heady scent filled his nose, pooling on the back of his tongue and trickling down his throat. It was salty and musky and just so—

“Sam.” He choked on the name, every click of his zipper echoing loudly in the room. “Sam. God, Sam.” He used his brother's name as a mantra, as an encouragement, as a plea. Head falling back in ecstasy when his jeans dropped to the floor, Dean gasped as Sam's heated lips latched onto the skin of his jawbone. “Sammy!”

“Sh—” For a moment, Dean thought Sam was telling him to keep quiet. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling out again. But the younger man detached himself from his brother, chest heaving as he continued. “Sh-Shower.”

Dean opened his eyes, bringing his head down to nod before Sam tugged him toward the bathroom. Before he realized it, water was running, and the stopper that switched the water to the shower head was pulled. Sam had him up against the wall just outside the tub, thrusting against him painfully over and over again. They cried out with every collision of their hips, the sensitivity of their aching cocks not slowing their rhythm. Sam's insistent rubbing, the slide of skin against skin, Dean's fingernails etching marks into his brother's back—all of this was enough to make them come within a matter of minutes. But something wasn't right. The heat that lay nestled in their stomachs didn't recede. It only grew stronger.

Dean's dick had barely softened before his blood began to pump again, and a throbbing started in his groin once more. He slammed his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and grinding his teeth. “You've got to be kidding me,” he groaned. Sam huffed with annoyance, and Dean opened his eyes to find his brother in the same situation, growling, “Shower.”

He grabbed Sam's wrist and dragged him into the shower stall that was barely big enough for one of them, let alone both Winchesters. But they pressed against one another, chest to chest, under the cold spray, gasping as their hips connected again. Their come-filled underwear felt disgusting and squishy and just didn't allow enough contact. As if reading his brother's thoughts, Sam maneuvered his boxer-briefs down and around his feet, doing the same for Dean, then throwing them out of the shower. They hit the wall with a wet slap, but neither man noticed as their lips devoured each other greedily. 

Dean attempted to speak between the kisses. “So...is this...just some...pent-up...aggression?...Or do you...think...something's...really...wrong?” He could barely get out a single word at a time. And Sam didn't seem to be listening anyway, reaching between them with one hand and taking both of them together. The elder of the two inhaled sharply, leaving room for Sam to plunge his tongue into Dean's mouth and match every pull of his hand with strokes against the roof of his brother's mouth.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't enough contact. They were skin to skin, tongue to tongue, dick to dick, and it still wasn't enough. The brothers moved and pulled and squeezed, as if trying to fuse. They couldn't possibly be any closer together . . . and it still just wasn't enough.

After a moment, Sam pulled his mouth away and leaned his forehead against Dean's, concentrating on the work at hand. No pun intended, he told himself wryly. Water soaked through his hair and glided down his back between his shoulder blades as he pressed Dean further into the back tiles, droplets trickling between his ass cheeks and pooling around his heated hole. He grunted at the sensation, hoping that whatever this was it would last at least until Dean got to fuck him properly. 

“I think,” he started, gasping when Dean's hand covered his own and urged him to go faster, “we should...definitely...uhn—” He winced as something molten seemed to spill from his stomach and coat his insides. “—we need...ah...to call...B-Bobby.” He opened his eyes and met his brother's heated gaze. “S-Soon.”

“Soon,” Dean agreed with an emphatic nod of his head, letting loose a guttural sound as Sam came on his stomach and following shortly after.

Their release was short-lived. 

“Fuck!” Dean said desperately, eyebrows drawing together as he looked down at their hardening cocks. “It's like 'Night of the Living Boner.'”

Sam buried his face into the crook of his brother's neck, biting down on the firm muscle there to stifle a chuckle. “You didn't t—” He shuddered and swallowed as his groin gave an insistent, sharp pain. “—take anything, did you?”

“No.” Dean shook his head, his cheek brushing against Sam's hair as he did. “You?”

Sam shook his head as well. “Uh-uh.”

“We definitely need to call Bobby.”

Sam nodded, reluctantly pushing himself away from Dean and leaning against the opposite wall. Cold water hit Dean's burning skin as the taller man shifted, but he barely felt it. No cold shower was going to get rid of this. Sam motioned toward the shower door with his head. “Go. I'll . . . try and stay put.” Even as he said the words, he reached out and squeezed his brother's shoulder, running his hands down the slick skin and beginning to tremble. “Go. Go, go.”

Dean complied, giving Sam one last longing look before forcing the shower door open and stepping out. He didn't bother with a towel as he disappeared out the door. Sam watched him leave, eyes on the other man's tight, muscled ass. He groaned, closing his eyes, grabbing himself, and starting to stroke. It wasn't the same as rubbing up against his brother, not the same as feeling Dean's mouth wrapped firmly around him and sucking like he was the last popcicle on earth. Nothing could compare with Dean. Dean was an essential part of him, the fucking blood in his veins. He coursed through Sam daily, leaving traces of himself everywhere. 

Sam's entire being tingled. His lips, his fingertips, his toes. Every hair on his head prickled with the thought of Dean. He wouldn't last much longer without him.

0 o 0 o 0

Every step away from the shower, away from Sam, was agony. A jolt of electricity stabbed at his insides, and he stumbled to the wall, having to brace himself against it to keep himself upright. Fighting past the lust and the consistent throbbing below his bellybutton, he forced his mind to focus on where he had left his cellphone. Nightstand? No. Table beside the door? No. Bed? Don't think of the bed. Pants! Back pocket! He scrambled to his forgotten jeans lying at the foot of his bed, having to crawl on his hands and knees when his legs gave out. He fumbled with the material, his eyes watering in frustration until his fingers undeftly closed around the cool plastic. 

Speed dial #2: Bobby. Calling...Calling...Calling....

“Yeah?”

“Bobby!” Dean's panic-laden tone must have startled the older man, because he was immediately bombarded with questions. 

“Dean? What's wrong? What's happened? Are you boys all right?”

“I-I-I don't know, Bobby,” the young man stuttered, running a hand through his hair and grunting as another pain shot through his abdomen. “Something's wrong with us. Something . . . Did you find out what that stuff was? Whatever was on those darts?”

Damn that last hunt! Aboriginal ghosts or some stupid shit. Sam had tried to explain it, and it had held Dean's interest for about as long as it had taken him to start daydreaming about pie. And Sam. Sam with pie. Mmmm.

Dean shook his head. Darts. They'd been hit with darts. At least half a dozen each. Damned evil Aboriginal ghost darts. Laced with something; Bobby was trying to figure out what. They hadn't felt right. Something had seeped into their blood, changed them, made them . . . this.

That had to be the explanation. Sam and Dean were hot for each other, sure, but this was overkill. This was not merely want or need or lust. This was pure, unfiltered ache. It hurt to be away from Sam. It hurt to not feel him against his skin, rubbing and biting and sucking. 

“Nothin' yet,” Bobby said worriedly. “I'm workin' around the clock, and I've got some good people on it . . . It'd be good if we could get some symptoms.”

Dean laughed hysterically, leaning forward until his forehead smushed into the carpet, his free hand tugging at his hair as he stared at his weeping cock. His laughing soon morphed into hiccuped sobbing, and he smashed a fist against the floor. “Fuck, Bobby. Fuck, it hurts.”

Bobby cursed, then took a breath. “All right,” he soothed as best he could. “All right. Just keep calm. I'm gonna come and find you boys. Where are you?”

Dean wracked his brain, trying to remember the name of the motel. Something cheesy . . . Fuck, they were all cheesy. Come on! We pulled in, the sign said . . . the sign said . . . .

“Th-Three Fates,” he managed past the lump in his throat. He was going to throw up, his stomach was churning so badly. “Highway . . . 40. Highway 40.” He grunted, falling onto his side and curling into himself, one arm around his middle. “Bobby—” 

“I got it, Dean. I'll find ya. Stay put,” Bobby said quickly. Then, as an afterthought, “Stay strong. It's gonna be all right.”

“O-Okay,” Dean gasped before ending the call. He whimpered, a shaking hand reaching between his legs and gingerly grabbing hold of himself. No sooner had he touched himself, then he was spurting over his hands with a shout. It didn't feel as good as it had when Sam had done it. And he was still hard as a rock.

“Dean.” Sam's voice rang out from behind him. He tried to turn over, but his abdomen gave a resounding No! to that idea. So he stayed put until Sam was kneeling next to him, turning him onto his back. “Dean! Shit! Come on, let me.” Sam's fingers radiated warmth and relief. The older Winchester felt himself uncoiling immediately under his brother's touch. He stretched his legs out, and Sam instantly leaned down between them, circling the base of Dean's cock with his fingers and positioning his mouth at the tip, where beads of pre-come were already forming. He licked at the salty, bitter stuff and let it marinate in his mouth as he leaned down to swipe his tongue up the underside of his brother's twitching member, stopping at the tip again and panting hard as his own cock mirrored the action.

Dean bucked as he felt Sam's hot breath ghosting over the head of his wet dick, wanting that heat on him, surrounding him. “S-Sammy,” he pleaded. There wasn't time for foreplay. He had to get off now. It was a medical emergency. He was going to explode. Through his cock. He knew it, he just knew it. It was going to go off like a firecracker, and then he'd be dick-less for the rest of his life. He'd have to live vicariously through Sam—if Sam even had a dick after this, of course. Because if Dean's exploded, then it was only fair that Sam's did, too. “Sam, please.”

The ache was too strong. Sam needed it just as much as Dean did. So he surged forward, engulfing as much of Dean as he possibly could. He'd been able to take more and more of him as they'd continued fooling around over the last year or so. As of yet, he'd been unable to deep throat Dean entirely, but this was as good a time as ever to try, he supposed. With every downward lunge, he took in a little more, massaging the part that he couldn't quite get to yet with his fingers. And every pull-back was with a vacuum-like suction that had Dean clawing at the carpet. 

Finally, Sam hit all the way home, holding Dean in his throat in a moment of triumph before pulling back slow and with just the tiniest bit of pressure from his teeth. Dean's hands came up, intent on holding Sam's head still so he could start his own pace, but Sam's fingers instantly snapped around his brother's wrists, holding them captive against Dean's belly just above where his attentions currently lay.

Sam kept up his agonizing tempo, aware of his own problem as a stinging sensation slashed at his stomach. He gagged as both his pain and Dean's pleasure nearly brought up bile and that morning's breakfast. He couldn't hold Dean's hips and hands and stroke himself at the same time, and, at the moment, getting himself off seemed more important. So Sam released Dean's hands, allowing his brother to string his sticky, come-covered fingers through his long hair and fuck his mouth.

It was an odd feeling, not being the one in control of what did and did not slide up and down one's throat. But Sam concentrated on himself, closing his eyes against the tears and opening his throat as he'd taught himself to do. His own hand still wasn't enough. He needed Dean's hand on him, Dean's skin slick and hot against his own. 

Dean was in his own turmoil, wrestling with wanting to get off and suffocating his little brother with his cock. He just wanted this all to be over. If felt good, no doubt. Every moment in Sam's mouth was amazing. But now Sam was in the same boat he had been in—pain, torture, agony. What had they done to deserve this? Were they being punished? Death by incest, or something? Because they would, eventually—die, that is. Man could not survive on sex alone, to Dean's great disappointment.

The older man felt his insides begin to rage into a full-on boil, cooking him from the inside out. How much more could they take? How much come did one man have in him? They had to start shooting blanks eventually, right? Maybe . . . Whatever the hell this was, it was enough to keep them going for as long as intended. 

Dean felt the coil in his abdomen tighten, and a white flash pierced his eyes. Sam choked on the come that exploded down his throat, moaning as Dean's rocking persisted. The older man's cock made no transition from soft to hard, just continued to slide in and out of Sam's mouth as an ever-solid form. Dean sobbed as the ache immediately took him again, his release momentary and unsatisfying as he pounded into his brother's mouth again and again. Sam took it willingly, finding spaces to breath as Dean pulled nearly all the way back and slammed all the way home with every frustrated stroke. 

“Damn it, Sam,” Dean cried, tears running in steady streams down his cheeks. “What the hell? What the hell is wrong with us?”

Even if Sam hadn't currently been gagging on his brother, the pain would have kept him from answering. He moaned around Dean's length. This wasn't working. For Sam, at least. 

Sam grabbed his brother's hands, digging his fingernails into calloused, weather-beaten skin and prying them from his head. He wheezed and coughed as he extracted himself from Dean, replacing his mouth quickly with his hand. It wasn't as satisfying, but it would do for now—and give the younger man some time to recuperate. 

“Dean,” he rasped, his throat sore and raw. 

Dean knew exactly what Sam needed. Grabbing the young man under the arms and hauling him towards himself, he sat up. Sam hovered over his brother, straddling Dean's hips with their chests pressed together. Their lips locked, hands going to each others' cocks and stroking with renewed energy. Dean crossed his legs under his brother. His legs would fall asleep eventually, but right now it was the most comfortable position they could manage. 

“How long...can we...keep this up?” Sam panted into Dean's mouth, groaning as he came and dragging the fingernails of his free hand down Dean's chest. 

“Long as...we need to...Sammy,” Dean replied, an exhausted but amused smirk lighting his face and shining brilliantly in his eyes. The brothers laughed, fighting the hysterics that they each wanted to release. “I'm gonna...take care of you...little brother.”

“I know, Dean,” Sam sighed, grunting when his brother's grip tightened as he came in the younger man's hand. “Can we...move to...the bed?”

Dean let loose a sound between a laugh and a sob, leaning his forehead against Sam's shoulder and nodding with a wince . “Yeah. Yeah, let's do that.”

0 o 0 o 0

Bobby found them three days later. Dean was slumped over his brother, his forehead resting on Sam's come-slicked chest, his half-hard cock buried in Sam's ass, and one of Sam's legs slung over his shoulder as his fingers lazily pumped the younger man. Sam looked barely conscious, hooded, unseeing eyes directed up at the ceiling, one arm flopped over the side of the bed, knuckles scraping against the heinously-carpeted floor as, even near death, the boys rocked against one another.

“Jesus,” Bobby muttered as he covered his mouth and nose, unable to move from the doorway. The smell of days-old stale sex rolled from the room in waves, setting off his gag reflex. He was going to be sick, seriously sick. An he wasn't quite sure if it was because of what he was smelling . . . or what he was seeing.

Dean's head shifted, and his pupil-encased eyes met the older man's. He grunted as his movements persisted, having not the energy to feel embarrassed or ashamed, and took a deep, labored breath. “Bobby,” he rasped. “H-He . . . Help!”

Bobby thought no more about it. His boys—and, yes, his boys; he'd claimed them the day that John Winchester had made that stupid deal and left the brothers to fend for themselves—were in trouble, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to do everything in his power to set things right. Because this—whatever the hell it was—wasn't right; not at all. He started forward, holding his breath as best he could, and crossed the room to the furthest bed in a matter of a few strides. 

Strong arms latched under Dean's armpits and hauled him not-too-kindly off of his brother. Both Winchesters cried out at the loss of contact, pain mixed with pleasure. Dean was thrown onto the other come- and, to Bobby's horror, blood-stained bed, and the older man glanced between the two, assessing the situation. Their breathing was harsh and shallow; Sam's was worse, his chest hitching with every other breath like his sputtering lungs were giving out on him. The youngest looked like he was in shock, which seemed to be the most pressing matter, so Bobby started with that. 

0 o 0 o 0

“Vampire blood?” Dean asked incredulously, twirling a dart between his thumb and forefinger and studying the tip of it carefully. “How would vampire blood do . . . that?”

Bobby snorted, filling Sam's glass with more water and giving him a pointed look when the young man dared to glare at it. Sam reluctantly snatched the glass from Bobby's kitchen table and took a few sips to stave the man's wrath, slamming it back down and spilling a few drops onto the dark wooden finish. Bobby had been adamant about re-hydrating the Winchesters. Three days without water was nothing to sneeze at.

Dean drank his water absently. Unlike Sam, he hadn't been that close to the brink of death. Sure, a few more hours and he would have probably been as unresponsive as his brother, but he was taking this all in stride. Bobby hadn't said anything about the situation he'd found them in—yet. And Dean wasn't quite sure if the older man would say anything about it. All three men figured it was just too embarrassing a subject to bring up.

“Vampire blood has different properties when you aren't actually bitten by a vamp,” Bobby explained, placing the pitcher of water down and taking a seat at the table. “The Aboriginals used it to confuse their prey, cause them pain so they were easier to catch. I don't think they knew what it really did to humans because they only used it on animals. Your case—” Bobby scratched at his beard self-consciously. “—was probably different, too, because the blood on those darts came from the same vampire. And with the amount in your bloodstream . . . .” Bobby hesitated, looking between the two Winchesters. “I'm happy to be seein' you boys sittin' here.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a brief and knowing look. They were very lucky to be sitting at Bobby's table being fussed over and taken care of. The older man deserved to know the truth about them, and they planned on telling him—one day. But Dean hadn't been completely out of it when he'd seen the look of horror on their friend's face, the disgust and loathing about what they had done. If Bobby didn't think that it had been necessary, that they could have found another way, the conversation they were having would probably have been a different one altogether. Like a “don't-ever-come-around-here-again” kind of conversation. 

The Winchester boys weren't willing to risk their friendship with Bobby. And they weren't willing to risk their relationship as both brothers and lovers. So silence, at this point, was definitely golden.

“Yeah,” Dean said huskily, swallowing hard as he set the dart back in the tray that Bobby had provided for the remaining few that hadn't needed to be tested. “About that . . . .” He leaned forward onto the table, arms crossed and gaze locking with the older man's. “Bobby, I don't think we know how to thank you for that.” 

Sam nodded. “We know . . . it was strange. The way you found us.”

“Well, you . . . had to do what you had to do,” Bobby said quietly, shrugging uncomfortably. “I don't think you would have survived if you hadn't.” He shifted in the chair. “And I'm glad you idjits decided to call me instead of dealing with it yourselves.”

Dean smiled good-naturedly. “Well, I'm glad you got to us in time. It would have been a hell of a thing to explain to the maid service.”

“Yeah, well, that was your own fault,” the older man chuckled. “Next time you want to get found out by the maids, keep the 'Do Not Disturb' sign off the front of your door.”

All three of them laughed, Dean and Sam doing their best not to wince as the action jostled certain parts that certainly didn't need jostling. It would take a while before either of them were ready to get back into the swing of things—which referred to both hunting and other activities. 

“We owe you one, Bobby,” Sam rasped shyly, becoming fascinated with his water and taking a few deep gulps.

“Let's . . . not mention it, all right?” Bobby asked, eyebrows raised.

Both Winchesters agreed. This was not a case that any of them would want to remember. 

A sudden thought hit the elder of the brothers, and he cursed under his breath, taking out his cellphone and standing. 

“What's wrong?” Sam asked, sitting forward slightly as his brother started toward the other room. “Who are you calling?” 

Dean bit the inside of his cheek before answering. “Chuck.”


End file.
